SPLINTERS 


SPLINTERS 
KEITH  PRESTON 


SPLINTERS 

BY 

KEITH  PRESTON 


NEW  XBr  YORK 

GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


Copyright,  1921, 
By  George  H.  Doran  Company 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


Acknowledgments  are  due  to  the 
Chicago  Daily  News  for  permission  to 
reprint  verses  which  originally  appeared 
in  "The  Periscope" ;  also  to  the  Chicago 
Tribune  for  some  verses  printed  in  the 
"Line  O'Type." 


CONTENTS 


Splinters      ...........  13 

Advertisement    .....     ,.;    r.i    ..      .:     •„  14 

Warm  Babies  ..........  ^ 

The  Humorist        .........  iy 

Bed  Books  and  Night  Lights  ......  18 

The  Blazed  Trail        ........  20 

The  Wallflowers    .........  21 

The  Beloved  Granger       .......  23 

The  Wells  Outline  of  History     .....  24 

Love  Song  ...........  2C 

Ethel  M.  Dell       .........  26 

Ye  Truffler  and  Ye  Trifler    ......  27 

The  Smith-Premier  Jazz  .......  28 

Willa  Sibert  Gather     .....     ....  29 

Lifry  Notes     ........     ..  30 

Rural  Delivery       .........  32 

The  Dotty  Poets    .........  33 

Lai  D'Orelay    ..........  34 

Home  Brewed  Verse    ........  3^ 

vii 


Heart  Blobs 36 

Walter  De  La  Mare .  38 

Bee  Lines 39 

Song 40 

Poet  Nurseries 41 

We  Specialize 42 

Repressions 43 

The  Eternal  Conflict 44 

The  Municipal  Muse 45 

The   Great  Difficulty 46 

Spilled  Milk 47 

AE 48 

To  a  Bottle  of  Vinegar 49 

Advice  to  Poets 50 

Arms  and  the  Whistle 51 

The  Lays  of  the  Lands 52 

The  Poetry  of  Publishing 53 

The  Tempered  Wind  .      .      .      .,     ,;     .      .      .  54 

Vitamine  Verses 55 

Those  Tight  Little  Styles 57 

The  Next  War 58 

Cupid  M.ZX,  Psycho-Analyst 59 

The  Casualty  List       ........  60 

Ode  to  Common  Sense      .......  61 

The  Gist  of  It .,     .  63 

The  Shears  of  Destiny 64 

viii 


Testimonial 65 

Gods  and  Machines 66 

Please  Go  Way  and  Let  Me  Sleep    ....  68 

Wanted — Inglorious  Miltons 69 

There's  the  Rub 70 

A  Business  Love  Song 71 

Stars  and  Such 72 

Our  Aim 74 

Ingratitude 75 

Shoddy 77 

God's  Country 78 

The  Sinister  School 80 

Einstein  Made  Wheezy 81 

A  Fable  for  Librarians 82 

Effervescence  and  Evanescence 83 

Safety  First 84 

The  Trend 85 

Look  in  the  Book  and  See 86 

Blue  Stockings 87 

The  Durable  Bon  Mot 88 

/  Remember 89 

The  Parental  Critic 91 

On  Meeting  a  Publisher 92 

Reflections 93 

Low-Browed  Rocks 94 

The  Second  Growth 95 

ix 


When  the  Poetasters  Tasted 97 

Pygmy  Politics 98 

The  Appian  Way 99 

The  Complete  Cynic 101 

New  Stars  for  Old 102 

Pygmalion         104 

The  Classics  in  a  Nutshell 106 

Le  Roi  Est  Mori.    Vive  le  Roi! 107 

Philosophy  for  Fish 108 

Cats 109 

Antarctic  Fauna no 

Big  Time in 

The  Autocrat  of  the  Nursing  Bottle  .      .      .      .  112 

Beatus  Ille 113 

The  Promoter 114 

The  Arbitress 116 

The  Good  Old  Summer  Time 117 

On  Meeting  a  Poetess 118 

Inquiry 119 

Past,  Present,  Future 120 

Songs  of  the  Seasons 121 

The  Pensive  Pen  122 


SPLINTERS 


Splinters 

Know  that  our  jeers  and  our  applause 

Are  subject  to  unchanging  laws; 

Dear  reader,  not  by  hit  or  miss 

Do  we  impart  the  mitt  or  hiss. 

Rapt  eyes  we  raise  to  the  SUBLIME 

Soaring  apart  from  age  or  time, 

But,  when  that  monomaniac 

Genius,  assays  an  airy  tack, 

Slips  by  the  wing  and  falls, — poor  cuss!- 

Plumb  down  to  the  RIDICULOUS, 

Do  we  give  way  to  silent  tears? 

No,  sir,  we  sprint  for  souvenirs. 

Where  genius  crashes  down  to  earth 

We  pluck  a  splinter,  sir,  of  mirth. 


Advertisement 

I  wrote  vers  libre  at  fever  heat : 
I  never  could  make  both  ends  meet. 
I  fell  to  rhyming,  with  dispatch, 
And  easily  made  both  ends  match. 

So  I  am  happy  to  report 

Some  fine  remainders;  long  and  short, 

Odd  sizes,  for  poetic  freaKS, 

ALL   BROKEN    LINES. 
BIG  SALE. 

TWO  WEEKS! 


Warm  Babies 

Shadrach,  Meshach,  Abednego, 

Walked  in  the  furnace  to  an'  fro, 

Hay  foot,  straw  foot,  fro  an'  to, 

An'  the  flame  an'  the  smoke  flared  up  the  flue. 

Nebuchadnezzar  he  listen  some, 

An'  he  hear  'em  talk,  an'  he  say  "How  come"?" 

An'  he  hear  'em  walk,  an'  he  say  "How  so? 

Them  babes  wtte  hawg  tied  an  hour  ago!" 

Then  Shadrach  call,  in  an  uppity  way: 

"A  little  more  heat  or  we  ain'  gwine  stay!" 

An'  Meshach  bawl,  so  dat  furnace  shake: 

"Lanlawd,  heat!  fo'  de  good  Lawd's  sake!" 

Abednego  yell,  wid  a  loud  "Kerchoo!" 

"Is  you  out  to  freeze  us,  y'  great  big  Jew!" 

Nebuchadnezzar,  he  rare  an'  ramp, 
An'  call  to  the  janitor,  "You  big  black  scamp! 
Shake  dem  clinkers  an'  spend  dat  coal! 
I'll  bake  dem  birds,  ef  I  goes  in  de  hole!" 
He  puts  on  de  draf  an'  he  shuts  de  door 
So  de  furnace  glow  an'  de  chimbly  roar. 
Ol'  Nebuchadnezzar,  he  smole  a  smile, 
"Guess  dat'll  hold  'em,"  says  he,  "one  while." 


Then  Shadrach,  Meshach,  Abednego 
Walk  on  de  hot  coals  to  an'  fro, 
Gulp  dem  cinders  like  chicken  meat 
An'  holler  out  for  a  mite  more  heat. 
OF  Nebuchadnezzar  gives  up  the  fight; 
He  opens  dat  door  an'  he  bows  perlite. 
He  shades  his  eyes  from  the  glare  infernal 
An'  says  to  Abednego,  "Step  out,  Colonel." 
An'  he  add,  "Massa  Shadrach,  I  hopes  you  all 
Won'  be  huffy  at  me  at  all." 

Then  Shadrach,  Meshach,  Abednego, 
Hay  foot,  straw  foot,  three  in  a  row, 
Stepped  right  smart  from  the  oven  door 
Jes'  as  good  as  they  wuz  before, 
An',  far  as  Nebuchadnezzar  could  find, 
Jes'  as  good  as  they  wuz  behind. 


16 


The  Humorist 

He  must  not  laugh  at  his  own  wheeze 
A  snuff  box  has  no  right  to  sneeze. 


Red  Books  and  Night  Lights 

Reading  in  bed  as  a  fine  art.     The  rules  of  the  cult 
gleaned  by  a  careful  study  of  the  best  modern  essays. 

That  reading  in  bed  is  a  rite  with  a  ritual, 

Those  couch-cognoscenti  our  essayists  teach; 
Ye  novices,  learn  from  us  aesthetes  habitual 
The   bed    written    rules    that    the    essayists 

preach. 

Retire  to  your  room  with  the  paraphernalia, 
Some   hoary   old    volume,    your   brier   and 

pouch, 

And  garbing  yourself  in  nocturnal  regalia, 
Then  kindle  the  candle  that  stands  by  the 
couch. 

For   bed   books,   no  new   books   we   essayists 

handle; 
For  night  lights,  no  bright  lights  are  known 

to  the  game — 

A  second-hand  book  by  a  flickering  candle, 
A  tattered  old  tome  by  a  tremulous  flame. 
We  cling  to  the  candle,  so  human,  appealing; 

It  weeps  as  it  works,  shedding  tallowy  tears ; 
18 


So   second-hand    books    touch    us    readers    of 

feeling 

With    lachrymose    thoughts    of    delectable 
years. 

How  fondly  we  dandle  in  candle-lit  darkness 

Fair  folios  veiled  in  voluptuous  vellum, 
And  thrill  to  the  mad  Latin  grammar  of  Hark- 

ness 

Or  rakish  old  Caesar's  wild  Gallicum  Bellum. 
How    dull    and    drab    novels    or    newspaper 

colyums ! 

Ye  tyros,  give  ear  to  us  urging  >  instead 
The  old  broken  volumes,   the   vellum-bound 

volumes, 
The  worm-eaten  volumes  we  lug  to  our  bed. 


The  Blazed  Trail 

When  doubtful  what  to  read  it  helps 
To  watch  for  William  Lyon  Phelps, 
Blazoned  along  the  fictive  trail, 
Blue  blazes  eloquent  of  Yale. 


20 


The  Wallflowers 

"Something  there  is  that  does  not  love  a  wall." 

— Robert  Frost. 

You  look  out  at  me  so  sadly 

Up  against  the  wall  behind  you, 
Little  books  that  fare  so  badly 

On  the  shelf  where  I  consigned  you: 
Little  books  that  came  here  hoping 

I  would  trot  you  round  a  bit. 
This  reviewer  left  you  moping, 

For  he  did  not  find  you  fit. 

I  remember  thee,  thou  fat  one, 

On  the  Czecho-Slovak  nation, 
Yes,  I  lamped  thee,  little  flat  one, 

"Some  Receipts  for  Conservation." 
God  of  Hacks  and  Francis  Hackett! 

On  my  head  a  thousand  curses ! 
If  I  look  beyond  the  jacket 

Of  yon  gushy,  slushy  verses. 

Still,  so  piteous  your  showing, 
In  that  limbo  where  I  speed  you, 

Will  you  sit  more  happy  knowing 

That  the  New  York  Times  will  read  you  ? 

21 


That  the  Times  will  boldly  face  you, 
Size  you  up  and  never  swerving, 

Coram  populo  embrace  you, 
Even  to  the  least  deserving. 


22 


The  Beloved  Granger 

(In  the  manner  of  Witter  Bynner) 

I 

Shall  I  make  hay 

While  the  sun  shines, 
Or  wait  for  it  to  rain 
Pitchforks? 

ii 

My  mind  is  like  a  lightning  rod 
Erected  to  the  pregnant  clouds 

Of  inspiration. 

Strike,  happy  thought,  strike! 
That  I  may  run  you 
Into  the  ground. 


The  Wells  Outline  of  History 

Bare  facts  and  experts  void  of  art 
Boosted  bad  boys  like  Bonaparte. 
So  we  acclaim,  in  accents  hearty, 
This  book  less  expert  than  ex  parte. 


24 


Love  Song 

(In  the  Freudian  manner) 

Great  Freud,  inform  my  burning  heart; 

Instruct  me  how  to  woo! 
Teach  me,  with  psychopathic  art, 

To  make  my  dreams  come  true. 

He  comes!     Dear  love,  repressions  fade. 

Gone  is  my  late  neurosis; 
My  tongue  has  found,  by  Sigmund's  aid, 

The  eloquent  verbosis. 

Love,  lay  thy  phobias  to  rest, 

Inhibit  thy  taboo! 
We  twain  shall  share,  forever  blest, 

A  complex  built  for  two. 


Ethel  M.  Dell 

I  love  little  Ethel, 

Her  books  are  so  warm, 

And  though  I  don't  need  them, 
They  do  me  no  harm. 


26 


Ye  Truffler  and  Ye  Trifler 

Dear  reader,  when  in  sweet  content, 
You  trifle  with  the  succulent 

First  fruits  of  current  fiction, 
Do  you  reward  by  any  chance 
Ye  dumb  reviewer  with  a  glance 

Of  careless  benediction*? 

Think  of  the  miles  of  sterile  ground 
He  courses  over,  faithful  hound, 

For  literary  truffles; 
And  leadeth  you  to  luscious  feed 
This  olde  dogge  Tray  that  may  not  read 

But  only  runs  and  snuffles. 


The  Smith-Premier  Jazz 

(In  the  manner  of  Vachel  Lindsay) 

Let  the  singer  train  the  audience  to  chew  like 
stenos  and  to  tap  with  their  toes  and  click  their 
heels  before  he  begins  to  lead  them  in  the  jazz. 

Thus  tapped  the  stenos: 
"The  quick  brown  fox —  Here  the 

The  quick  brown  fox —          audience  taps 
The  quick  brov/n  fox.  .  ."       with  the  leader. 
Brrrrrrrrrrrrrr 
Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.  .  . 
And  the  Boss  said  to  the  Office  Boy 
"Go  slow  the  stenos  down! 
Go  slow  the  stenos  down ! ! 
Go  slow  the  stenos  down ! ! ! 
Go  slow  the  stenos  down ! ! ! !" 
And  the  Boy  slowed  the  stenos  down. 
And  the  Boy  slowed  the  stenos  down. 
And  the  Boy  slowed  the  stenos  down. 

Brr  r  r  r    r    r    r    r 
And  the  Boss  came  out  of  his  den. 
And  the  Boss  came  out  of  his  den. 
And  the  Boss  came  out  of  his  den. 
28 


Willa  Sibert  Gather 

Blithe  Mencken  he  sat  on  his  Baltimore  stoop, 
Singing,  "Willa,  git  Willa!  git  Willa!" 

The  red-headed  Lewis  joined  in  with  a  whoop, 
Singing,  "Willa,  read  Willa!  read  Willa!" 

They  woke  every  bird  from  the  Bronx  to  the 

Loop 
Singing  "Willa,  git  Willa!  git  Willa!" 

So  we,  willy  nilly,  got  Willa  and  read 

And  Willa  proved  all  that  the  booster  birds 
said. 


Lit'ry  Notes 

There's  A.  the  novelist  that  writes 
Exclusively  on  rainy  nights, 

He  tells  his  publisher: 
And  B.  that  can  not  pen  a  word 
Without  a  bottle  and  a  bird, 

The  lit'ry  notes  aver. 

There's  C.  that  keeps  a  pup  or  two, 
And  D.  a  tufted  cockatoo 

(He  likes  his  study  hot). 
There's  James  that  keeps  his  study  cool 
And  lives  austerely  (as  a  rule) 

And  Richard  that  does  not ! 

There's  Cyril  writes  with  pencil  merely 
And  gets  poetic  fancies  queerly 

From  cats  upon  the  roofs: 
There's  X  who  never  learned  to  spell 
But  golly!  how  his  novels  sell! 

(His  chauffeur  reads  his  proofs.) 

All  these  quaint  facts  and  more  I  learn, 
On  what  makes  lit'ry  genius  burn, 
30 


By  publishers'  dispatch. 
I  mostly  keep  'em  to  myself; 
But  now  I'm  cleaning  up  my  shelf, 

I  slip  you  a  small  batch. 


Rural  Delivery 

(In  the  manner  of  Edwin  Arlington  Robinson) 

He  came  a  stranger  to  our  town,  old  Ben, 
And  proved  to  be  the  friendliest  of  men, 
Squeezing  your  hand  and  asking  how  you  be, 
Communicative  to  the  last  degree. 

He  liked  to  have  you  drop  in  at  his  place ; 
He  catered  to  you  with  no  common  grace; 
Nothing  was  hid  away  in  drawer  or  shelf; 
Ben  always  gave  you  all  he  had  himself. 

He  cracked  dry  jokes  the  while  he  brewed 

your  tea, 

With  his  infectious  sort  of  revelry. 
But  then  we  found  Ben's  visitors  begin 
To  drop  off  shortly  after  they  dropped  in. 

We  asked  him,  with  no  little  deference, 
Had  he  observed  this  strange  coincidence? 
Hoping  it  would  not  prove  a  social  barrier, 
Friend  Ben  allowed  he  was  a  typhoid  carrier. 


The  Dotty  Poets 

We  are  no  hand  to  mock  or  scoff, 
But  please  expound  to  us 

Why  most  free  verses  taper  off 
With  dots  in  order  thus  .  .  . 

We  pay  for  poets  by  the  word 
And  feel  no  little  swindled  .  .  . 

To  buy  these  polka  dots  absurd 
With  which  their  bull  is  brindled. 


33 


Lai  D'Orelay 

Georgie  Moorgie,  pudding  and  pie, 
Kissed  the  girls  and  made  them  cry. 
But  Mother  Goose  dared  not  to  hint 
What  Georgie  Moore  would  put  in  print. 


34 


Home  Brewed  Verse 

All  verses  of  domestic  brew 
(You  know  the  common  recipe: 

Sugar,  a  pound,  or  better  two, 
A  can  of  standard  simile) — 

All  home-brewed  verses,  I  repeat, 
Appear  to  poets  potable, 

And,  barring  undigested  sweet, 
At  times  approach  the  quotable. 

The  spirit  of  this  stuff  is  grand. 

It  shows  a  laudable  ferment. 
But  in  each  stanza,  I  see  stand 

At  least  an  inch  of  sentiment. 


Heart  Blobs 

(In  the  manner  of  Edgar  Guest) 

Home  ain't  home  till  you  can  spot 

By  thumb  prints  on  the  wall 
Just  where  each  little  tad  and  tot 

Played  up  and  down  the  hall. 
Oh,  take  away  your  spotless  towns 

And  marble  halls,  by  cricky! 
For  home  ain't  home  to  him  that  frowns 

Because  the  walls  are  sticky. 

No,  home  ain't  home  without  a  tint 

Above  the  cedar  chest 
To  show  where  laddie's  peppermint 

Was  forcibly  impressed. 
And  home  ain't  home  without  a  hint, 

A  blot,  a  blob,  a  splotch 
That  keeps  for  aye  the  golden  glint 

Of  lassie's  butter  scotch. 

If  you  would  always  have  those  spots 
That  home  ain't  home  without, 

Feed  taffy  to  the  little  tots, 
Let  sorghum  stand  about! 

36 


For,  folks,  when  all  is  done  and  said, 

I  say,  with  father  feeling, 
Home's  home  where  happy  kiddies  spread 

Molasses,  floor  to  ceiling. 


37 


Walter  de  la  Mare 

The  Georgian  poets'  hope  is  he, 
Like  a  lone  rocket  fired  at  sea, 
Spraying  the  night  with  gems  to  show 
The  sinking  Georgian  ship  below. 


Bee  Lines 

(In  the  manner  of  the  Georgian  Anthology) 

Gardens  seem  archipelagoes  to  bees 
With  port  o7  call  and  spicy  isle  galore, 

Where  bees  buzz  in  before  a  balmy  breeze, 
Or  garden  gusts  blow  bee  barks  battledore, 

On  poppy  isles  and  many  a  beetling  strand 

Where  bumble  boats  have  heavy  work  to  land. 

No  bee  can  tell  what  wealthy  ventures  wait 
In  these  Moluccas  small  or  Celebes 

Between  the  garden  hedge  and  garden  gate. 
Bees  pay  no  arbor  dues  nor  pilot  fees. 

Buccaneer  bees  all  chart  or  compass  lack; 

So  buzzing  bee  lines  miss  the  busy  track. 


39 


Song 

(In  the  manner  of  Sara  Teas  dale) 

Love,  I  do  feel  a  nameless  fear 
I  scarce  dare  breathe  aloud, 

Watching  yon  little  withered  moon, 
Wrapped  in  her  wisp  of  cloud: 

For  she  may  grow  as  when  we  met, 

As  opulent  and  bright, 
But,  love,  when  shall  I  be  again 

Full,  as  I  was  that  night? 


40 


Poet  Nurseries 

"Does  College  make  or  unmake  a  poet?" 

— The  Vassar  Quarterly. 

Bring  your  pansy  thoughts  to  college. 
Profs  will  water  'em  with  knowledge. 
Cool  'em  off  if  overhot 
With  a  patent  sprinkling  pot: 
Fitter  patter,  Pope  and  Pater, 
Petal  pelting  Alma  Mater. 

Girls,  the  world  is  cold  and  nips. 
College  comforts  little  slips: 
Tucks  a  clever  little  quilt  on, 
Purple  patches  from  John  Milton, 
Or  a  neat  antimacassar, 
Grannie  Smith  or  Auntie  Vassar. 

Girlies,  learn  to  concentrate 
And  eschew  the  social  date: 
Golden  girls  that  woo  the  pen, 
Shun  the  wiles  of  silly  men ! 
Sport  your  oak  to  one  and  all: 
"Prythee,"  say,  "let  no  bird  call!" 


We  Specialize 

Most  top-notch  doctors  grow  too  smart 
To  treat  all  comers  a  la  carte 
And  start  some  tasty  table  d'hote, 
F'r  instance, 

"EYE,  EAR,  NOSE  AND  THROAT." 
So  we,  to  show  our  class,  from  now 
This  fancy  specialty  avow, 

"THE  ESSAY,  TRAVEL,  POETRY." 
No  fiction  case  at  any  fee — 
(Of  course,  our  sign  is  just  for  looks: 
We  keep  good  patients  on  our  books.) 


42 


Repressions 

(On  the  Freudian  matter) 

The  desire  of  the  yegg  for  a  star, 

Of  the  cop  for  a  jimmy; 
The  desire  of  the  dry  for  the  bar, 

Of  the  deacon  to  shimmy; 
The  desire  of  the  fish  for  the  fowl, 

Of  the  fowl  for  the  oven ; 
The  desire  of  the  mouse  for  the  owl, 

Of  the  fop  for  the  sloven; 
The  desire  of  the  wild  for  the  tame, 

Of  the  full  for  the  void; 
All  these  are  the  tricks  of  the  game, 

According  to  Freud. 


43 


The  Eternal  Conflict 

City  loafer,  airy  grin, 
Guying  Gopher  Prairie,  Minn.; 
Gopher  Prairie,  cool,  contrary, 
Guying  city  loafer  airy. 


44 


The  Municipal  Muse 

(In  the  manner  of  Carl  Sandburg) 

I  have  heard  the  caroling  of  metropolises, 
Deep  calling  to  deep,  wet  to  dry, 
Montreal   to   Manhattan,   Havana   to  Key 

West  calling, 

"Yoo  hoo,  skinnay!  c'mon  over!" 
I  have  heard  them  slinging  slang, 
Kidding  one  another,  as  it  were, 
St.  Paul  to  Minneapolis  calling, 
"O  Min!" 


45 


The  Great  Difficulty 

Poet  novelties  fall  flat 

With  the  sky  that  same  old  plat, 

Moon  and  stars  so  trite. 
If  the  Lord  has  lit'ry  feeling 
He'll  redecorate  our  ceiling 

Some  fine  night. 

With  a  sky  that  does  not  leak 
And  the  lighting    new  and  chic 

(Indirect). 

Art  can  take  another  lease 
Upon  life  with  an  increase, 

I  expect. 


Spilled  Milk 

(A  real  Swinburne,  hitherto  unpublished  by  us.) 

Vain  it  is  to  wail  over  milk  that's  wasted: 
Vain,  alas,  to  sigh  for  what's  spilled  untasted: 
Tears  are  all  too  feeble  the  fates  to  soften 
For  the  pitcher  gone  to  the  pail  too  often. 
Yea,  futile  quite  is  our  lamentation 
For  the  fearful  crash  and  the  inundation, 
For  the  pitcher  shattered  and  pint  all  slopping 
As  we  stand  and  mope  when  we  should  be 
mopping. 

There  are  cows  enow  in  the  waving  grain ; 
There  are  cans  enow  in  the  early  train; 
There  are  bottles  plenty  on  dairy  carts 
And  tidy  tins  in  the  busy  marts. 
But  weep  as  I  will  I  shall  never  drink 
The  pint  that  fell  by  the  kitchen  sink. 


47 


AE 


A  calm,  green,  lovely  seagirt  isle, 
Worn  mariners  and  Circe's  smile, 
Black  spells — such  antique  witchery 
Lies  in  that  syllable  AE. 
But  white  thy  magic,  mystic  sage, 
Calm  in  a  fistic  day  and  age. 

Wave  on,  AE,  that  wand,  thy  pen ! 
Shed  calm  and  beauty  on  wild  men. 
So  thy  green  isle  in  the  Atlantic, 
So  gay,  so  fay,  sometimes  so  frantic, 
Erin,  for  magic  spells  but  mild 
The  new  AEAEA  shall  be  styled. 


To  a  Bottle  of  Vinegar 

(In  the  manner  of  Pope) 

Thou,  old  acetic,  thou  hast  been  one  time 
Stuff  for  the  towering  dithyrambic  rhyme; 
Flower  of  the  grape,  and  her  authentic  blood, 
Full  tides  of  ferment  fired  thee  at  the  flood. 

Wise  choice,  and  yet,  I  wonder,  dost  thou  rue  it, 
To  miss  decanters  and  to  hug  the  cruet? 
Once  chivalrous  and  southern  and  congenial, 
To  serve  for  humble  kraut  an  office  menial  ? 

Seek  not  to  mantle  surly  age  with  unction, 
As  salad  days  to  view  thy  crabbed  function, 
Salad,  in  sooth !  thou  knows t  not  what  it  means, 
Thou  acid  drench  upon  a  mess  of  greens! 

And  yet,  thy  lot  is  rational  and  safe, 
To  live  no  hunted  flask,  no  smuggled  waif, 
To  bask  in  daylight  on  thy  native  heath 
And  keep  thy  bite  although  bereft  of  teeth. 

Age  may  be  sour,  but  who  denies  it  sage  ? 
Let  giddy  youth  fling  vain  quixotic  gage. 
Short  shrift  await  the  wastrel  and  the  quaffer ! 
More  oil  anoint  thee,  sharp  and  thrifty  gaffer! 

49 


Advice  to  Poets 


Speak  roughly  to  your  Pegasus 
And  beat  him  if  he  wheezes; 

Real  poetry  is  serious 
And  humors  are  diseases. 

Too  smart  a  pace  requires  the  bit. 

No  quirt  or  quip  let  fall ! 
And  if  he  puts  his  foot  in  wit 

Your  Pegasus  will  sprawl. 


Arms  and  the  Whistle 

(In  the  manner  of  Dryderi) 

Those  gods  of  old,  a  bit  obeser, 
Now  masquerade  as  our  police,  sir; 
Our  crossway  gods,  with  stars,  blue  suits, 
And  whistles  for  their  attributes. 
Tootlings,  I  sing,  and  tyrant  nods 
Of  these  my  tootelary  gods; 
The  good  tin  gods  whose  toot  seraphic 
Doth  stem  or  start  the  teeming  traffic. 

What   time   I   shrink,   weighed   down  with 

packets 

Where  taxis  swarm  like  yellow  jackets, 
Mid  wains  and  tumbrils  hurtling  hellish 
(How  Homer  could  this  scene  embellish) 
My  deity,  with  whistle  loud, 
Transports  me  in  a  hollow  crowd 
As  Homer's  gods  in  cloudy  pen 
Cabined  their  Trojan  fancy  men. 


The  Lays  of  the  Lands 

"The  Pawnees  have  lived  so  long  exposed  to  the  in 
fluence  of  the  open  country  about  the  Platte  river 
that  their  songs  unconsciously  take  the  shape  of  its 
long  undulations." — Mrs.  Mary  Austin. 

Manhattan  bards,  by  tall  skyscrapers, 
Aspire  in  verse  that  towers  and  tapers. 

Mex  poets  pop  with  fire  and  fettle 
Provoked  by  Popocatepetl. 

Swiss  poems  glide  in  glacial  masses 
With  sundry  metrical  crevasses. 

Bards  on  plateaus  of  high  Tibet 
Are  platitudinous  as  yet. 

Montana's  muse  is  never  mute 
And  every  poem  is  a  butte. 

How  simple,  with  a  map  at  hand, 
To  learn  the  lays  of  every  land! 


The  Poetry  of  Publishing 

(After  Herrick) 

A  sweet  disorder  in  the  press 
Kindles  in  books  a  wantonness: 
A  jacket  in  some  gaudy  tone; 
A  binding  rather  loosely  sewn; 
A  blurb  or  two  that  here  and  there 
Bedeck  the  crimson  stomacher; 
An  arch  abandon  boldly  telling 
In  grammar,  punctuation,  spelling, 
Do  more  bewitch  me  than  when  art 
Is  too  precise  in  every  part. 


The  Tempered  Wind 

The  more  I  cast  the  careless  quip, 

The  warmer  thanks  I  learn  to  give 
To  editors  who  browse  and  clip, 

Whose  shears  are  long  and  sensitive. 
Prick  up  your  shears,  good  editor! 

Prune  and  reprint  the  plumes  of  us! 
The  more  his  wings  are  clipped  the  more 

Soars  our  exultant  Pegasus. 


5*4 


Vitamine  Verses 

{Acknowledgments   to   "Vitamines"    by   Benjamin 
Harrow.) 

Little  Willie  used  to  shine 
Pitching  on  the  village  nine; 
Suddenly,  friends  saw  with  anguish, 
Willie's  curves  commenced  to  languish. 

Every  single  hostile  hitter 
Landed  hard  on  Willie's  spitter; 
Even  dubs  commenced  to  chop 
Little  Willie's  famous  drop. 

Willie  grew  morose  and  thin; 
Papa  called  the  doctor  in; 
Told  him  Willie's  pitching  troubles, 
How  he  had  developed  doubles. 

"Doubles  always  incubate," 
Said  the  doctor,  "at  the  plate. 
What  does  little  Willie  eat?" 
Papa  answered,  "Mostly  meat." 

"Meat!"  this  modern  doctor  shouted. 
"Naturally  his  curves  are  clouted. 

55 


Heap  the  plate  with  cabbage  chopped 
And  the  bingles  will  be  stopped." 

Willie  got  the  cabbage  habit; 
Now  he  takes  it  like  a  rabbit 
And  mows  down  the  village  nines, 
Full  of  vim  and  vitamines. 


Those  Tight  Little  Styles 

"Why,  0  why,  has  Mr.  Untermeyer  chosen  to  follow 
Heine  in  his  tight  little  rhythms  and  mathematically 
cut  stanzas?" — Miss  Amy  Lowell) 

Ready  to  wear  vers,  modishly  cut, 
Heine  could  wear  'em,  no  one  said  "tut !" 
Tight  little  stanzas  fitted  his  parts, 
Ready  made  rhythms,  right  from  the  marts. 

Happy  that  Heine,  easy  to  fit! 
Supple  of  sinew,  winsome  of  wit. 
Oddly  proportioned  wits  of  today, 
Ready  to  wear  vers  gives  you  away! 


57 


The  Next  War 

Now  that  we  know  of  Menckenite 
And  Nathanite  (derived  from  it), 

Disarmament  seems  only  right; 
Such  weapons  stagger  human  wit. 

Three  drops  of  Menckenite,  they  say, 
Sprayed  from  a  pen  on  any  skin 

Suffice  a  pachyderm  to  slay, 

And  authors'  pelts  are  very  thin 

We  must  lay  down  our  epithets 
And  Mencken  might  be  willing  to; 

But  there's  a  question  that  upsets: 
What  then  would  Stuart  Sherman  do4? 

Will  Sherman  drop  his  irony 

And  shall  Fort  Sumner  be  surrendered*? 
How  hellish  will  the  next  war  be — 

Unless  some  compromise  is  tendered! 

We  offer  this  pacific  tip: 

If  Mencken  drops  his  Cabell  line 

And  Sherman  sinks  his  censor  ship 

The  chance  for  peace  will  then  be  fine. 

58 


Cupid,  M.D.,  Psycho-analyst 

You  wouldn't  know  Cupid,  the  beard  he  wears, 

Pals  with  medics  and  apes  their  airs, 

Swaps  his  arrows  for  doctor  rigs, 

A  little  black  bag  and  some  guinea  pigs, 

Keeps  his  poets  and  priests  employed 

Sorting  dreams  by  the  method  Freud, 

Guides  long  novels  to  horrid  ends 

With  dope  he  cribs  from  his  doctor  friends. 

Little  Dan  Cupid  of  story  and  jingle, 

Why  have  you  hung  out  this  beastly  shingle*? 

Don't  you  meddle  with  me  or  mine! 

You  horrible  comic  valentine ! 

Cupid,  Cupid,  if  you  don't  mind, 

Well  we  loved  you  when  you  played  blind, 

Toyed  with  arrows  and  doves  and  flames, 

Didn't  call  things  by  their  Latin  names. 

Fine,  we  liked  you,  when  you  began 

As  a  chummy  child  that  the  bards  called  Dan. 

Little  Dan,  Little  Dan,  little  Dan  C. 

Cut  out  the  medico-mummery. 

Be  our  little  old  fashioned  beau 

With  the  frills  and  lace  that  we  used  to  know. 

59 


The  Casualty  List 

"Accuracy  in  description  surely  makes  a  catalogue 
sound  like  a  hospital  report." — W .  H.  Allen,  book 
seller  and  wit  of  Walnut  street^  Philadelphia. 

Burns,  R.,  loose,  showing  signs  of  wear; 
Kreymborg,  Alfred,  unopened,  rare; 
Pope,  Alexander,  broken  backed; 
Morley,  Christopher,  gilt,  joints  cracked; 
Wordsworth,  William,  in  boards,  needs  tack 
ing; 

Swinburne,  Algernon,  flyleaf  lacking; 
Whitman,  Walt,  loose,  and  leather  rotted; 
Dell,  Floyd,  mottled  calf,  somewhat  spotted; 
Horace,  worm-eaten,  water-stained; 
Coverley,  Roger  de,  cover  strained; 
Tennyson,  banged  a  bit,  mended  with  glue; 
Lowell,  Amy,  uncut,  as  new. 


60 


Ode  to  Common  Sense 

Spirit  or  demon,  Common  Sense! 
Seen  seldom  by  us  mortals  dense, 
Come,  sprite,  inform,  inhabit  me 
And  teach  me  art  and  poetry. 

Teach  me  to  chuckle,  sly  as  you, 
At  gods  that  now  I  truckle  to, 
To  doubt  the  New  Republic's  bent 
And  jeer  each  bookish  Supplement. 

Now,  like  a  thief,  you  come  and  flit, 
You  call  so  seldom,  Mother  Wit! 
Remember*?     Once  when  you  stood  by 
I  found  a  Dreiser  novel  dry. 

One  day  when  I  was  reading  hard, — 
What?    Amy  Lowell,  godlike  bard! — 
You  peeped  and  then  at  what  you  saw 
Gave  one  Gargantuan  guffaw. 

Spirit  or  demon,  coarse  and  rude, 
(Sometimes  I  think  you  must  be  stewed) 
Brute  that  you  are,  I  love  your  powers, 
But — drop  in  after  office  hours ! 

61 


Yes,  Common  Sense,  be  mine,  I  ask, 
But  still  respect  my  critic's  task; 
Molest  me  not  when  I'm  employed 
With  psychics,  sex,  vers  libre,  or  Freud. 


The  Gist  of  It 

"The  Colonization  of  North  America,  1492-1783." 

— Bolton  and  Marshall. 

By  dams  that  beavers  engineered 
And  clearings  French  and  Injuns  cleared, 
We  sturdy  Anglo-Saxons  potted 
The  first  inhabitants  and  squatted. 


The  Shears  of  Destiny 

Those  three  fates  of  ancient  fable, 
With  the  volume  on  the  table, 
Sat  and  took  their  daily  tolls, 
As  was  written  in  the  scrolls. 
Sisters  twain  spun  off  the  spindle, 
Let  your  thread  run  off  and  dwindle; 
When  the  dope  said  you  were  slipping, 
Cruel  Clotho  did  the  clipping. 

From  these  scissored  sisters  started 
Clipping  bureaus  stony  hearted, 
Where  the  chits  read  on  and  snicker 
At  their  damned  diurnal  ticker. 
When  some  journalistic  gink 
Says  your  book  is  on  the  blink, 
When  the  Post  declares  you  slipping, 
Cutie  Clotho  takes  a  clipping; 
Snips  and  pastes  your  doom  as  stated 
Hands  you  yours  all  stamped  and  dated. 


Testimonial 

"Send  for  it  [the  Encyclopedia  of  Etiquette}  that  you 
may  know  just  what  to  do  and  say  when  you  over 
turn  a  cup  of  coffee  on  your  hostess'  table  linen. 
Send  for  it  that  you  may  know  the  proper  way 
to  remove  fruit  stones  from  your  mouth." — Adv. 

It  used  to  rather  get  my  goat, 

In  fact,  I  felt  a  perfect  pup, 
When  I  had  wrecked  the  gravy  boat 

Or  overturned  my  coffee  cup. 
But  "Etiquette"  is  mine  to-day, 

And,  like  a  gentleman  of  class, 
I  am  most  jocular,  most  gay, 

When  I  have  dumped  my  demi-tasse. 

My  fingers  used  to  all  be  thumbs, 

I  blushed  and  inwardly  I  groaned 
When  served  with  olives,  prunes  or  plums, 

Or  cherries  negligently  stoned. 
But  now,  with  "Etiquette"  to  groom 

Me  such  is  my  temerity, 
I  flip  the  pits  around  the  room 

With  debonair  dexterity. 


Gods  and  Machines 

I    looked   at   the   gas   tank,   so  paunchy   and 

squat— 

Ah,  has  he  a  poem  inside  him  or  not*? 
I  looked  and  I  looked  at  this  comical  card 
And  wondered  what  copy  he  held  for  a  bard. 

I  sniffed  at  the  rich  odoriferous  air. 
I  groped  for  the  poem  I  scented  was  there; 
I  sighed  for  our  Sandburg  to  show  me  the  key, 
When,  whew !  the  afflatus  descended  on  me. 

Prosaic  ?  yon  tank,  set  so  firm  on  the  ground  ? 
Or  earthy?  this  Titan,  full  bellied  and  round? 
We  see,  Carl  and  I,  O  ye  rabble  myopic, 
The  heart  of  this  hulk,  how  it  throbs  philan 
thropic. 

Though  blatant  his  look,  what  a  beautiful  soul ! 
How  free  with  the  gains  that  he  squeezes  from 

coal. 
How  lavish  of  sweetness  and  light  from  his 

gains, 
Still  serving  the  people  with  might  and  with 

mains. 
66 


Ah  yes,  he  illumines  some  millions  of  heaters, 
While  brass  buttoned  thousands  are  reading 

his  meters; 

So  generous  he,  with  his  brightness  sidereal, 
For  me  and  for  Carl  he  makes  bully  material. 

For  Carl   and  myself,   if  you   know   what   I 

mean, 

Can  vision  the  god  where  you  see  the  machine. 
But  in  justice  to  Carl  I  would  have  you  divine 
His  gods  are  not  nearly  so  gaseous  as  mine. 


Please  Go  Way  and  Let  Me  Sleep 

"Psychoanalysis.     Sleep    and    Dreams."     By    Andre 
Tridon. 

Dreamland,  in  which  I  loved  to  stop, 

To-day  is  Freudian  and  frowzy, 
And  yet  inveterate  I  drop 

Asleep  when  I  am  good  and  drowsy. 
Those  ports  to  which  my  ship  of  dreams 

Scudded  before  a  snoring  gale, 
Lighted  by  lurid  Freudian  beams, 

Loom  perilous  and  yet  ...  I  sail ! 
Though  banned  the  dreamland  I  esteemed 

And  quarantined  each  port  o'  call, 
'Tis  better  to  have  slept  and  dreamed 

Than  never  to  have  slept  at  all. 


68 


Wanted — Inglorious  Miltons 

Everybody's  busy  at  that  critic  game 
Rolling  little  timbers  to  the  Hall  of  Fame. 
Why  should  I  be  idle?     Upon  my  soul! 
I  want  a  little  log  of  my  own  to  roll. 

I  want  to  show  my  muscle  and  dexterity : 
I  want  a  log  that's  troublesome  and  slippery: 
I  want  to  take  a  tough  one  in  my  timber  hooks 
And  shine  as  a  Columbus  in  the  Land  of  Books. 


There's  the  Rub 


You  did  not  know 
How  wild  ducks'  wings 
Itch  at  dawn  .  .  . 

—Lola  Ridge 

0  didn't  I  just? 

1  did  so!  ... 
That's  when  sawbills 
Come  in  handy.  .  .  . 


70 


A  Business  Love  Song 

My  love  is  formed  with  perfect  art, 
A  standard  size  in  every  part; 
O  wonderful !  the  mother  wit 
That  framed  my  love  so  fine  to  fit. 

My  love  is  very  strong  and  bold; 
His  eyes  are  keen  and  icy  cold; 
So  cool,  so  green,  one  would  declare 
Cucumber  frames  the  specs  they  wear. 

My  love  is  business  every  inch, 
His  grip  compelling  as  a  winch; 
He  never  wastes  a  move  or  word — 
"Righto!"  he  crackles,  or  "Absurd!" 

He's  asked  me — he,  my  love,  my  Jim ! — 
To  organize  a  home  for  him. 
The  deal  is  closed.    Can  such  things  be? 
His  love !    Jim's  coefficient !    Me ! 


Stars  and  Such 

"Colored  Stars"  Fifty  Asiatic  Love  Poems,  E.  Pow 
Mathers. 

I 

Such  stars !     My  peering  periscope 
Saw  'em  as  plain  as  man  could  hope; 
Full  fifty  nifty  slants  at  Venus 
With  nary  asterisk  between  us! 

ii 

Such  scents !     As  sybarite  and  seer 
I  swim  in  sultry  atmosphere, 
Where  incense,  oriental  sandal, 
Smothers  the  well  known  breath  of  scandal. 

in 

Such  songs !    How  hot  and  dry  I  am 
After  that  sizzler  from  Siam! 
Believe  me,  boys!     Beluchistan 
Is  no  place  for  a  modest  man ! 

IV 

Such  hues!    O  henna-tinted  flesh, 
Gold  ears,  and  locks  of  ebon  mesh, 
Soft  topaz  eyes,  red  fire  of  kisses ! 
Beware  the  betel  chewing  misses ! 

72 


V 


Barbaric?    Here's  a  scorching  Kurd 
Makes  poor  old  Whitman's  yawp  absurd, 
And  any  Afghan  blade  of  class 
Has  lays  to  wither  Walt's  green  grass. 

VI 

Say !     With  this  volume  on  his  shelf 
A  guy  can  orient  himself — 
Touch  off  the  incense  and  grow  drunk 
On  burning  poetry  and  punk. 


73 


Our  Aim 


74 


Some  sigh  for  gales  of  laughter; 

Some  whistle  for  a  wheeze: 
I  merely  aim  to  riffle 

Your  risibilities. 
I  like  to  prod  the  piffle 

With  which  the  press  is  full, 
Or,  like  the  banderillo, 

Pin  ribbons  on  the  bull. 


Ingratitude 

There  was  a  poet  in  our  town, 

A  poet,  sir,  of  parts, 
Who  had  the  rules  of  meter  down, 

And  all  poetic  arts: 
He  clipped  his  verses  long  or  short, 
He  did  the  rhymed  or  rhymeless  sort, 

But  never  drew  a  yelp. 

The  Chinaman  Hop  Lee,  the  same 
Who  did  his  shirts  and  collars, 

Slipped  him  the  tip  that  led  to  fame — 
Those  Ming  dynasty  scholars! 

The  learned  birds  that  wrote  such  oodles 

On  tea,  and  concubines,  and  poodles, 
And  junks  and  jade  and  kelp. 

Our  bard  was  quick  to  take  his  queue 

From  generous  Hop  Lee, 
The  Mandarins  and  old  Manchu, 

And  ideography. 

He  served  them  hot  in  fervid  inks 
These  bird's  nests  from  exalted  Chinks, 

Soup  stock  of  poetry! 

75 


And  now  this  poet  in  our  town 

Began  to  put  on  dog: 
Yea!     Even  Braithwaite  did  bow  down 

Before  the  SINOLOGUE: 
But  did  this  pidgin  poet  show 
A  proper  gratitude*?  O  no! 

He  changed  to  a  steam  laundry. 


Shoddy 


We  do  not  ban  nor  yet  despise 
The  book  that's  merely  merchandise, 
The  canny  sleuth,  the  cowboy  dapper, — 
Just  so  the  filler  fits  the  wrapper! 

Make  merchandise,  dear  author,  do! 
An  honest  market  waits  for  you; 
But  though  you  do  not  tempt  the  thinker, 
Put  wear  in  all  the  wares  you  tinker. 


77 


"God's  Country" 

("A  story  through  which  sweep  the  winds  of  terrible 
passions,  'where  men  bulk  big' — a  place  of  sinning 
and  great  deeds — of  iron  souls  and  iron  fists ;  a  new 
story  of  God's  country'' — Adv.) 

It's  bullets,  booze,  and  buffets. 

Beef,  wine  and  iron  men, 
God's  country  where  the  boys  run  wild, 

The  beeves  are  in  the  pen. 
What  makes  God's  country  such  a  mess  ? 

Where  do  they  get  that  stuff? 
Whatever  makes  God's  countrymen 

So  rowdy  and  so  rough? 

God's  country  wots  not  grammar; 

The  nouns  are  crude  and  raw; 
The  very  verbs  and  adjectives 

Obey  no  human  law. 
The  sky  above  is  monstrous  blue 

And  high  because  (don't  scoff!) 
"Out  there"  the  very  clouds  appear 

To  know  the  lid  is  off. 

Sometimes  it's  in  the  Ozarks 
Where  ozone  oozes  wine. 

78 


Alaska  and  New  Mexico 

Are  frightfully  divine. 
I  know  not  if  those  purple  heights 

Are  grazed  by  purple  cows. 
Would  that  be  stranger  than  some  sights 

That  God's  domain  allows*? 


79 


The  Sinister  School 

"There's  a  sinister  house/'  said  the  bull  on  the 

beat, 

With  an  ominous  eye,  "upon  Sinister  Street; 
To  the  sinister  lure  of  this  horrible  lair 
All   the   thrillingest  authors   and   playwrights 

repair ; 
On  these  premises  dark  in  a  year  there  were 

done 
Plays,  novels,  and  stories,  one  thousand  and 


one.'7 


80 


Einstein  Made  Wheezy 

Twinkle,  twinkle,  little  star, 

How  I  wonder  what  you  are, 

Up  above  the  world  so  *  *  *  dammit! 

How  did  Einstein  diagram  it4? 


8l 


A  Fable  for  Librarians 

The  keeper  of  the  zoo,  one  day, 
Decided  to  buy  only  hay. 
"Since  we  must  standardize,"  said  he, 
"Hay  suits  the  big  majority." 

The  bear  was  quite  resentful  but 
The  keeper  of  the  zoo  said  "Tut! 
Your  taste,  dear  Bruin,  does  you  proud, 
But  I  must  cater  to  the  crowd." 

The  lion  gave  his  bale  one  look; 
His  baleful  roar  the  cages  shook. 
"Ooooh !"  said  the  keeper  of  the  zoo, 
"Guess  I  must  get  a  bone  or  two." 

And  so  the  lion  got  his  grist; 
The  bear  went  on  the  waiting  list; 
The  big  majority  still  chew 
About  what  Nature  meant  them  to. 


82 


Effervescence  and  Evanescence 

We've  found  this  Scott  Fitzgerald  chap 

A  chipper  charming  child; 
He's  taught  us  how  the  flappers  flap, 
And  why  the  whipper-snappers  snap, 

What  makes  the  women  wild. 
But  now  he  should  make  haste  to  trap 

The  ducats  in  his  dipper. 
The  birds  that  put  him  on  the  map 
Will  shortly  all  begin  to  rap 

And  flop  to  something  flipper. 


Safety  First 

That  serial  I'm  reading  had  me  scared,  it  did ! 
The  hero  started  speeding  and  looked  sure  to 

skid; 
The  heroine  seemed  slipping  (and  she  did, 

almost) 
But  they  can't  get  very  naughty  in  the  Sat. 

Eve.  Post. 

Our  hero  turned   the  corner  without   spill  or 

shock; 
The  gal  is  no  forlorner,  thanks  to  good  Saint 

Bok! 

So  never  never  worry  if  they  start  to  coast 
For  they  never  hit  the  bottom  in  the  Sat.  Eve. 

Post. 

It  may  look  like  a  joy  ride  when  the  couple 

starts, 
But  our  author  takes  the  safe  side  in  the  slippy 

parts. 
The  ride  will  not  be  tippy  though  they  tope 

a  tub 
For  the  ale  is  never  nippy  at  the  Curtis  Pub. 


The  Trend 

"Let  me  have  books  about  me  that  are  fat." 

— Julius  Ctzsar. 

We  have  had  volumes  tall  and  fat; 
Books  by  the  prominent  Red  Hat, 
The  Admiral  and  Diplomat. 

Great  men  can  not  write  shortly. 

The  broader  vision  of  the  war, 
(It's  bound  to  broaden  more  and  more) 
Big  Guns  of  greater  girth  and  bore 
Mean  volumes  still  more  portly. 


Look  in  the  Book  and  See 

("Memories"  by  Lord  Fisher) 

Said  the  First  Sea  Lord  to  the  Second  Sea  Lord 

In  Admiral  Fisher's  book — 
It  couldn't  be  true,  so  I  rubbed  my  eyes 

And  I  went  for  a  second  look — 
But  the  thing  was  there,  I  will  tell  no  lies; 

It  left  me  as  pale  as  chalk, 
And   I   said   to  myself,    "When   they're  safe 
aboard, 

My  land !     How  the  Sea  Lords  talk !" 

What  the  First  Sea  Lord  to  the  Second  said 

I  never,  no  never,  can  quote, 
For  I  am  a  delicate,  delicate  man 

As  ever  was  sick  afloat. 
If  you  would  know  what  the  First  Lord  said 

And  the  Second  told  the  Cook, 
Just  look  it  up  in  the  book  I  read 

In  the  bold  Lord  Fisher's  book. 


86 


Blue  Stockings 

To  me  there's  always  something  shocking 
About  your  unabashed  blue  stocking 
Exposing  to  my  sense  alert 
Subjects  she  might  discreetly  skirt. 

Not  that  I  much  admire  the  knack 
Of  hiding  what  one  should  not  lack. 
But  limbs  or  lore  both  shine,  I  guess, 
Most  fair  when  sheltered  with  address. 


The  Durable  Bon  Mot 

When  Whistler's  strongest  colors  fade, 
When  inks  and  canvas  rot, 

Those  jokes  on  Oscar  Wilde  he  made 
Will  dog  him  un forgot. 

For  gags  still  set  the  world  agog 
When  fame  begins  to  flag, 

And,  like  the  tail  that  wagged  the  dog, 
The  smart  tale  dogs  the  wag. 


/  Remember 


I  remember,  I  remember 

The  books  I  used  to  read, 
Sweet  Elsie  and  the  Dinsmores 

And  Max  and  Viamede. 
They  seemed  a  stupid  family, 

But,  curled  upon  my  chair, 
I  learned  the  whole  dam  pedigree, 

Because  the  books  were  there. 

I  read  all  Bulwer's  novels  through 

And  thought  them  very  grand; 
It  was  a  silly  thing  to  do, 

But  there  they  were  at  hand. 
His  heroes  quoted  Latin  verse, 

And  people  clapped  to  hear — 
Which  fact,  for  better  or  for  worse, 

Determined   my   career. 

Webster  seemed  big  and  dry,  that  time, 
And  got  my  coldest  shoulder. 

Sizzled  and  misled  used  to  rhyme 
(My  way  with  words  was  bolder). 

89 


I  did  not  know  a  musketoon 
From  dirk  or  snickersnee; 

A  doubloon  and  an  octoroon 
Were  common  coin  to  me. 

I  remember,  I  remember, 

(To  wander  back  to  Hood) 
When  words  meant  anything  I  chose 

And  sounded  as  I  would. 
'Tis  then  imagination  glows 

Ere  yet,  with  fell  annoy, 
Shades  of  the  dictionary  close 

About  the  growing  boy. 


90 


The  Parental  Critic 

We  cannot  bear  to  roast  a  book 
Nor  brutally  attack  it; 

We  lay  it  gently  on  our  lap 
And  dust  its  little  jacket. 


On  Meeting  a  Publisher 

He  picked  me  out  from  two  or  three 
And  chummed  around  a  bit  with  me ; 
Yet  something  shy  in  words  and  looks 
Showed  I  was  scarce  in  his  good  books. 

If  I  have  judged  the  man  aright 

I  was  not  in  his  good  books  quite, 

And  yet — he  is  a  publisher — 

So  who  knows  what  his  good  books  were 

It  would  have  been  an  indiscretion 
To  advertise  his  first  impression; 
He  liked  me — but  he's  waiting  for 
A  couple  of  impressions  more. 


92 


Reflections 

(Upon  reading  recent  criticisms  of  Mark  Twain) 

I 

They  say  the  Ouija  and  the  Freudian  flit 
About  the  Courts  where  Wisdom  dwelt  and 

Wit: 

Mark  Twain,  our  Laughter  Lord ! — the  Sol 
emn  Ass 
Brays  o'er  his  Head  nor  fears  the  Lash  and 

Bit. 

ii 

Nowhere  so  thickly  twine  and  densely  spread 
The  Twaddle  Vines  as  where  some  Genius  bled ; 
Each  Poppycock  that  Letters  bring  to  Light 
Wraps  groping  Roots  around  some  Hero  dead. 


93 


Low-Browed  Rocks 

Somehow  we  liked  the  old-time  hush 
Round  Helicon  and  Hippocrene; 

Those  days  the  grasses  seemed  more  lush, 
The  rills  more  bright  and  clean. 

With  the  old  fogies  you  may  class  us : 

We  don't  like  billboards  on  Parnassus. 

Those  days  you  heard  the  fountain  gush 
And  saw  the  lizard  on  the  rock, 

Above  you  strayed  the  lark  and  thrush, 
Below,  the  browsing  flock. 

With  the  old  fogies  you  may  class  us : 

We  don't  like  billboards  on  Parnassus. 

Now  union  painters  ply  the  brush 

And  stencil  those  brown  rocks  with  this : 

"Try  Someone's  Literary  Mush"- 
"Brain  Food  You  Must  Not  Miss." 

The  withered  grasses  lose  their  sap; 

Papyrus  is  cut  down  to  pap. 

With  the  old  fogies  you  must  class  us : 
A  bas  the  billboards  on  Parnassus ! 


94 


The  Second  Growth 

Little  cedars,  little  larches 

Where  the  old  stumps  rot. 
Once  this  tangle  was  a  forest, 

When  your  seed  was  not — 
Ere  they  swarmed,  those  lumberjacks 
Bearing  timber  hooks  and  axe 

For  the  war  against  the  big  sticks, 
Little  firs  and  tamaracks. 

Have  you  heard  it,  little  birches, 

All  the  saga  of  the  pine? 
Tall  and  straight  as  Harald  Fairhair 

And  his  jarls  in  line, 
Serried  Norways,  mile  on  mile, 
And  they  felled  them  file  on  file, 

Lopped  their  limbs  away  and  dragged  them 
In  a  rough  and  ruthless  style. 

Now  their  dust  is  by  the  sawmills 
That  are  toppling  toward  the  lakes; 

Creepers  hide  the  rutted  log  roads 
That  no  sledge  now  takes. 

95 


They  were  cut  for  beam  or  mast, 
You  will  do  for  pulp  at  last — 

Striplings,  upstarts,  on  the  marches 
Of  the  giants  of  the  past. 


When  the  Poetasters  Tasted 

"If  you  drink  water,  ifs  not  a  dithyramb" 

— Epicharmus. 

When  a  critic  met  a  critic, 

Tully  tells  us,  he  would  wink: 
When  a  poet  met  a  poet, 

He  would  order  up  a  drink. 
Yes,  when  Epicharmus  flourished, 

If  a  fellow  was  not  wet, 
He  was  non  persona  grata 

In  the  dithyrambic  set. 

Now  our  critics  and  our  rimers 

Rarely  wink  and  never  buy. 
They  were  rummies,  those  old  timers! 

We  are  glad  the  world  is  dry. 
But  I  read  a  ream  of  verses, 

And  I  swear  they  leave  me  cold. 
They  were  piped,  but  they  were  pippins 

In  the  piping  times  of  old. 


97 


Pygmy  Politics 

Sifting  old  Homer's  golden  lore, 

One  page  my  eye  detains, 
How  paltry  pygmies  fought  of  yore 

With  long-legged  storks  and  cranes. 
They  battled  storks,  I  know  not  why ; 

No  more  in  fact  did  Homer; 
Herodotus  knew  less  than  I, 

The  sly,  mendacious  roamer! 
Those  pygmies  died ;  the  loss  was  small, 

But  great  the  moral  linked: 
Peoples  that  fight  the  stork  shall  all 

Become  extinct. 


The  Appian  Way 

(Dedicated  to  our  English  visitors) 

Epictetus  came  to  Rome 
Talking  on  his  Grecian  tome; 
Lecturing  about  the  Forum 
Always  drew  an  eager  quorum. 
Vestal  virgins  at  his  name 
Banked  the  sacred  fires  and  came : 
Dames  said,  "Aren't  you  dear  to  treat  us, 
Darling  Mr.  Epictetus?" 

BUT- 

If  one  can  safely  trust 

Scribes  he  gave  occasion  just 

For  a  diatribe  or  two 

By  the  things  that  he  would  do; 

As,  at  Scipio's  soiree, 

Just  to  pass  the  time  away, 

Grabbing  up  the  water  clock, 

Dumping  it  upon  his  block, 

"Hoi  polloi !     You  overheat  us !" 

Sputtered  Mr.  Epictetus. 

Apuleius  came  to  Rome 
From  a  sunny  Afric  home 

99 


Telling  club  and  study  class 
How  he  wrote  his  "Golden  Ass." 

BUT— 

Though  Vestals  to  a  virgin 
Seas  of  Roman  matrons  surgin' 
Clapped  the  "Golden  Ass"  quite  madly 
Read  in  Latin  broken  (badly); 
Though  his  periods  were  neat, 
Showing  his  dactylic  feet 
Through  lacunas  in  his  sandals 
Apuleius  stirred  up  scandals. 

SO— 

They  passed  a  LEX  to  bind 

Literati  all  to  mind 
Every  Roman  p  and  q, 
Do  in  Rome  as  Romans  do; 
To  respect  the  Roman  God 
And  be  adequately  shod. 

WITH- 

A  mark  like  this  to  toe 
Speakers  gave  a  (pid  pro  quo 
And  preserved  the  Roman  PAX 
'Twixt  the  rostra  and  the  ax. 
100 


The  Complete  Cynic 


Diogenes,  that  wise  old  bird, 

Walked  Main  Street  up  and  down, 

To  lamp,  as  doubtless  you  have  heard, 
Some  honest  man  in  town. 

And  whether  he  found  any 

Has  been  completely  hid, 
But  as  against  a  penny 

I'll  bet  my  wad  he  did. 

He  took  their  names  and  numbers  down, 

With  many  secret  snickers. 
Diogenes  sold  sucker  lists 

To  Hellenistic  slickers. 


101 


New  Stars  for  Old 

("This  hundred  inch  mirror,  which  has  just  been  in 
stalled  at  Mount  Wilson  observatory,  California, 
will  bring  a  hundred  million  new  stars  into  the  ken 
of  man." — National  Geographic  Magazine.) 

Still  the  charted  heavens  speak 
Of  the  Arab  and  the  Greek, 
Kenned  and  conned  as  Hercules, 
Altair,  Vega,  Antares, 
Roman  Leo's  starry  pelt, 
Bold  Orion's  studded  belt, 
Crown  of  Ariadne,  martyr, 
Slow  Bootes,  dubbed  the  carter, 
Classic  labyrinths  to  lure  us, 
Lyra,  Cygnus,  and  Arcturus, 
Stately  names,  majestic,  regal, 
Roman  Aquila,  the  eagle. 

Let  the  old  time  heroes  glisten! 
Now,  with  little  stars  to  christen, 
Shall  we  doom  their  infant  forces 
To  plug  on  in  classic  courses? 
"Never!"     Education  cries, 
"We  must  modernize  the  skies. 

102 


Yon  twin  stars,  no  time  to  lose, 

Call  'em  'Charlie  Chaplin's  Shoes'; 

Yonder  galaxy  of  pearls, 

Call  'em  'Sennett's  Bathing  Girls/ 

If  you  need  a  good  name  for  a 

Fixed  star  better  call  it  Borah. 

The  more  crowded  starry  zones 

Shall  be  Smith  and  Brown  and  Jones/ 


103 


Pygmalion 

Pygmalion  carved  out  of  jade 

A  very  slim  translucent  maid 

And  then,  as  artists  do  today, 

Fell  for  his  finished  thought,  they  say. 

With  accents  wild  and  manner  flighty, 
Tossing  his  arms  to  Aphrodite, 
"O  blessed  Cyprian,"  he  cried, 
"Give  me  yon  gem  to  be  my  bride!" 

Lo!  even  as  the  air  he  clawed, 
That  shimmering  creation  thawed : 
Down  from  the  pedestal  she  leapt 
As  saucy  jade  as  ever  stept. 

His  ardent  eyes  he  could  not  slake. 
So  womanly  and  so  opaque! 
He  idolized  her  more,  I  guess, 
For  seeing  through  her  rather  less. 

Rose  pink  she  grew,  that  melting  queen. 
But  in  her  eye  still  lurked  some  green ; 
Jealous,  she  made  him  take  his  pen 
And  contract  ne'er  to  sculp  again. 
104 


"Y'know,  my  angel  Pyg,"  said  she, 
"You  love  your  own  idea  of  me; 
And  if  you  mess  around  with  jades, 
You  might  imagine  other  maids." 


105 


The  Classics  in  a  Nutshell 

(Modern  reader  s  library) 

VERGIL'S  ^ENEID 

^Eneas,  with  his  little  boy, 
Slid  down  the  fire  escape  from  Troy. 
He  took  the  household  bric-a-brac 
He  took  his  father  pick-a-back. 
His  wife  Creusa  he  forgot 
(Although  he  loved  her  quite  a  lot). 
She  perished  in  the  fire,  poor  dame ! 
He  often  thought  of  his  old  flame. 

From  Troy  he  sailed  the  raging  tide,  O ! 
To  Carthage  where  he  fell  for  Dido; 
Then  left  her  cold  and  went  to  hell 
Came  through  and  married  very  well. 
No  one  had  ever  thought  him  bad, — 
He  was  so  sweet  to  his  old  dad. 


106 


Le  Roi  Est  Mort.     Five  le  Roi! 

Dead  is  Bacchus,  God  rest  his  soul! 
Dead  the  catches  we  used  to  troll. 
Dead  the  bottle  and  dry  the  bowl. 

Ding-dong !     Ding-dong ! 
Sound  the  bugle  and  roll  the  drum ! 
Hail  King  Coffee,  your  hour  is  come ! 
Wreathed  with  chicory,  lads  and  lasses, 
Toast  our  monarch  in  demitasses. 
Roast  him,  toast  him,  sing  a  glee! 
To  this  merry  old  bean  out  of  Araby. 

Bacchus  II  his  name  and  style, 
Merry  monarch  of  Java's  isle. 
He  shall  liven  the  revel  late; 
He  shall  addle  the  poet's  pate; 
Rule  the  dances  of  nymph  and  satyr, 
Bubbling  lord  of  the  percolator. 
Brew  his  Mocha  and  quaffing  hot, 
Burble,  bards,  of  the  perkling  pot. 


107 


Philosophy  for  Fish 

i 

Gather  ye  minnows  while  ye  may, 

Old  time  his  net  is  plying. 
The  very  fish  that  swims  to-day 

To-morrow  may  be  frying. 

ii 

Materialist  as  is  the.  carp, 
Fish  sometimes  think  him  rather  sharp; 
So  tough  his  muddy  browsings  make  him, 
The  gods  above  are  loath  to  take  him. 

in 

Preparing  for  a  higher  sphere, 
The  pollywog  looks  mortal  queer, 
But  some  day,  fishes,  this  poor  cuss 
Will  have  it  over  all  of  us. 


108 


Cats 


I  do  not  think  that  I  have  seen 
A  man  of  so  aloof  a  mien, 
So  hoity-toity  and  all  that 
As  any  ordinary  cat. 

Your  cat  will  cotton  come  what  hap 
For  lap  and  love  to  any  chap, 
But  canny  cats  love  cream  and  liver 
More  fondly  than  the  foolish  giver. 

In  poker,  when  some  genius  hatched 
An  institution  cold,  detached, 
That  takes  with  no  return  nor  pity, 
He  called  that  article  a  kitty. 

Tail-waving  cats  as  Homer  sings 
Have  viewed  the  tallest  pomps  of  kings 
But  nothing  has  transpired  to  prove 
That  ever  king  a  cat  could  move. 

Foiling  some  canine's  foul  .attack 
A  cat  once  arched  her  stately  back. 
An  architect  observed  the  pose; 
So  our  triumphal  arch  arose. 

109 


Antarctic  Fauna 

(Versified  Jrom  "South"  by  Sir  Ernest  Shackleton) 

THE  EMPEROR  PENGUIN 
This  bird,  in  brains  a  bit  subnormal, 
In  plumage  is  correct  and  formal ; 
So  uniformed  in  fact  this  silly, 
Some  genius  named  him  after  Willy. 

THE  Ross  SEAL 

The  Ross  seal  lives  on  ends  and  odds, 
On  plankton  or  on  amphipods; 
But  when  these  odds  and  ends  grow  wearing 
He  blows  himself  to  flippered  herring. 

THE  MODERN  MARINER 
That  ancient  mariner  left  word 
The  albatross  was  one  mean  bird, 

Uncommonly  vindicative ; 
How  nice  to  hear  this  bird  has  chickings 
Which  makes  uncommon  tasty  pickings 

For  parties  not  persnickative. 


110 


Big  Time 


Seeing  strong  men  and  acrobats 
Do  tiresome  things  upon  <soft  mats 

And  get  a  call, 

I  wish  a  Samson  could  be  had; 
He  brought  the  house  down,  too,  that  lad. 

They  felt  it  fall. 

Bang  it  came  down  upon  the  beans 
Of  all  the  artless  Philistines. 

Some  gore ! 

Yes  sir !  when  Samson  used  to  show, 
And  made  a  killing,  there  was  no 

Encore ! 


Ill 


The  Autocrat  of  the  Nursing  Bottle 

(To   the  dean   of  newspaper  health   oracles.   Doctor 
W.  A.  Evans.) 

He  leadeth  them  by  Pasteur's  path, 

Beside  the  biling  waters; 
He  keepeth  little  sons  from  scath, 

And  eke  the  little  daughters. 

He  knoweth  milk  and  orange  juice; 

He  maketh  safe  the  nipple; 
He  fits  the  pap  to  the  papoose, 

And  tippeth  off  the  tipple. 

So  glory  be  to  Evans,  Doc, 
That  succoreth  the  suckling, 

That  chaseth  colic  from  the  flock, 
And  probes  the  puny  duckling. 


112 


Beatus  Ille 


Oh,  the  early  mail  edition 

As  a  news  sheet  hardly  classes, 
But  how  grand  an  education 

Does  it  give  the  rustic  masses ! 
Where  a  little  later  likely 

Will  appear  some  silly  scandal, 
See  a  deep  botanic  blurb  on 

Eucalyptus  wood  or  sandal. 
Where  the  city  fellow  lightly 

Reads  of  graft  and  lower  topics, 
Happy  Podunk  learns  the  habits 

Of  the  fauna  in  the  tropics. 
While  the  latest  issue  gives  us 

Rape  or  murder  for  our  matins, 
loway  absorbs  a  method 

For  removing  spots  from  satins. 
O  the  happy  happy  farmers, 

And  the  herdsmen  and  the  millers, 
Who  suck  wholesome  information 

From  these  elevating  fillers. 


Fed  up  as  I  am  on  gang  loot, 
Slander,  sleuths,  and  politicians, 

Me  for  some  sweet  R.F.D.  route 
And  the  early  mail  editions! 


114 


The  Promoter 

How  wonderful  this  man  who  knows 

That  men  astute  and  wise, 
Purblind  to  moonshine  such  as  glows 

Before  us  poet  guys, 
That  even  most  sagacious  men 

For  hard-boiled  judgments  noted, 
Will  chase  a  star  beyond  their  ken, 

(If  properly  promoted.) 

Who  calls  this  man  a  grafter 

Or  jeers  the  stocks  he  bears? 
He  lifts  the  smoky  rafters 

And  shows  you  golden  stairs. 
He  points  to  mother  lodes  of  tin 

Or  rocks  with  bismuth  coated, 
And  proves  that  fairy  ships  come  in 

(If  stocks  can  once  be  floated.) 

He  talks  the  Timbuc-Tulsa  line 
To  where  the  gusher  roars, 

Or  to  the  Onbeyonda  mine — 
(This  poet  never  bores.) 


To  apple  groves  beyond  compare, 
Plantations  dwarfing  speech; 

His  mileage  takes  you  anywhere 
(That  magic  carpets  reach.) 

God  bless  this  benefactor, 

Whose  poems  never  stale, 
Who  sells  a  birthright  of  romance 

For  rolls  of  common  kale. 
From  sordid  bonds  relieved,  you  learn 

To  tread  the  rainbow  track. 
He  guarantees  a  safe  return. 

(He  always  sets  you  back.) 

It  seems  to  me  that  poet  norm 

From  Greece  to  Hindustan, 
In  time  dopes  out  a  native  form 

To  touch  the  common  man. 
Our  Vergils  sing  of  golden  gleams 

In  ads  that  ever  please ; 
Each  Yankee  Milton  ever  dreams 

Prospectuses  like  these. 


116 


The  Arbitress 


Do  you  remember,  Central, 

That  time  I  called  my  wife? 
You  hooked  me  up  with  someone 

Who's  nothing  in  my  life. 
She's  nothing  in  my  life  at  all 

And  I  am  naught  to  her, 
But  yet,  that  fleeting  moment, 

Ye  gods !  how  close  we  were. 

It  must  be  splendid,  Central, 

Yon  web  of  life  to  make, 
With  threads  of  conversation 

To  cut  and  snarl  and  break. 
Sometimes  with  kindness  all  divine 

You  give  my  prayers  success; 
Sometimes  I  piously  resign, 

"Well,  She  knows  best,  I  guess." 


117 


The  Good  Old  Summer  Time 

"The  days  grow  ever  wanner,  sir." 
Moloch  remarked  to  Lucifer. 
"Now  heaven's  windows  open  wide, 
Shall  not  our  graphophones  be  tried?" 

"Well     thought!"     bold     Satan     cried,     and 

"Marry!" 

"Our  red-squeal  records  ought  to  carry. 
Turn  on  that  shrieking  of  the  damned ! 
What  joy  to  hear  heaven's  windows  slammed !" 


On  Meeting  a  Poetess 

Lady,  I  used  to  love  your  lines, 

So  warm,  so  wild,  and  so  erotic, 
Stealing  my  raptured  sense  away 

Insidious  as  rare  narcotic. 

Lady,  today  our  paths  have  crossed 
And  something,  lady,  has  upset  me; 

No,  not  your  fatal  beauty;  that 

You  had  some  time  before  you  met  me. 

No,  not  the  tortoise  rims  you  wear, 
The  reticule  that  speaks  the  spinster, 

Not  just  your  suit,  your  hat,  your  air, 

Though  these  would  dignify  Westminster. 

My  nerve  the  tout  ensemble  hit. 

Well,  in  my  time  I've  lost  a  few  bets ; 
Who'd  dream  those  tropic  lines  were  writ 

By  one  that  looks  so — Massachusetts'? 


119 


Inquiry 


Will  you  read  these  verses,  neighbor, 

Neighbor  right  across  the  court*? 
If  you  will,  I'll  save  the  labor 

Of  a  separate  report, 
How  your  cracked  piano  carries 

To  my  study  in  the  eaves, 
And  I  even  hear  you  stumble 

When  you  stop  to  turn  the  leaves; 
How  I  love  your  "Soldiers  Chorus" 

Played  with  jazz  and  vim  and  pep; 
(Though  I  feel  a  call  to  tell  you 

That  the  boys  are  out  of  step.) 
How  your  "Old  Black  Joe"  does  thrill  me, 

As  the  French  would  say,  to  rave ; 
(Though  you  might  just  pedal  lightly 

On  the  poor  old  codger's  grave.) 
How  "Sweet  Afton"  flowing  nightly 

Is  the  finest  thing  I  know. 
(Never  was  a  dam  constructed 

Which  could  moderate  that  flow.) 


120 


Past,  Present,  Future 

"Marquesans  mark  off  the  minutes  by  cigarettes,  say 
ing,  'I  will  do  so-and-so  in  three  cigarettes'  or  'It 
is  two  cigarettes  from  my  house  to  his." — Frederick 
O'Brien. 

Not  clepsydrae  where  liquid  time 

Tinkled  in  droplets  down; 
Not  glasses  where  the  arid  hours 

Sifted  in  granules  brown; 
Not  dials  where  the  shadows  creep 

As  fingered  gnomons  beckon; 
No  ticking,  whizzing,  whirring  clocks 

Tell  time  as  poets  reckon. 

What  but  the  ready  cigarette 

Serves  you  in  day  or  dark, 
Showing  the  future  as  a  glow, 

A  moving,  eating  spark; — 
The  present  as  a  pungent  smoke, 

A  whiff  we  may  not  stay; 
The  past  a  cold  and  pallid  ash, 

Lightly  to  flick  away. 


121 


Songs  of  the  Season 

The  laying  season  first  I  praise 
When  hens  are  cackling  roundelays, 
And  chanticleer,  with  loud  eclat, 
Proclaims  his  latest  coop  d'etat. 
The  fishing  season  next  I  prize 
When  piscatory  anthems  rise, 
As  merry  anglers  troll  their  catches 
To  reels  a-humming  little  snatches. 
The  bathing  time  my  chorus  swells, 
Told  by  the  peeling  of  the  belles, 
With  noisy  costume  to  imbue, 
"Wring  out  the  old,  wring  in  the  new !" 


122 


The  Pensive  Pen 

I  wish  I  were  the  Hottentot, 

Not  polyglot  nor  pensive; 
His  native  spot  is  nice  and  hot ; 

His  wardrobe  inextensive. 
He  never  lacks  a  leafy  cot, 
Some  coals  on  which  his  pot  is  sot, 
A  cache  concealed  in  some  cool  grot 
Of  liquor  for  his  nightly  tot. 

(That's  strong  but  inexpensive.) 
He  pays  his  grocer  scot  and  lot; 
His  guests  get  gratis  what  he's  got; 
All  politics,  says  he,  are  rot; 

He  is  not  apprehensive. 
So,  polyglot  and  pensive,  I 

Admire  the  Hottentot, 
Who  lives  where  mercury  is  high 

And  other  things  are  not. 


123 


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